An Attribute of the Strong
by procrastin8or951
Summary: Whatever Dean was eating in Purgatory, it wasn't what you'd call well-balanced meals. And adjusting back to 'real' food is harder than he expected. Dean's thin, borderline underweight (despite Sam's bitching at him to eat something), and his immune system really isn't up to dealing with flu season...
1. Chapter 1

**An Attribute of the Strong**

**Chapter One**

**Summary: **Written for the prompt at hoodie-time: _Whatever Dean was eating in Purgatory, it wasn't what you'd call well-balanced meals. And adjusting back to 'real' food is harder than he expected. Dean's thin, borderline underweight (despite Sam's bitching at him to eat something), and his immune system really isn't up to dealing with flu season..._

* * *

"You know, you wouldn't have to do that if you'd just eat something." Sam said it casually, like it was supposed to be helpful, with a hard edge of condescension, like Dean should be smart enough to figure it out on his own.

Dean looked up from piercing a new hole in the leather of his belt just long enough to glare at Sam where he lounged on the bed, laptop on his knees, then turned his attention back to twisting the knife carefully through the leather.

He heard Sam sigh, too loud not to be purposeful. "When you're done, we can go to dinner." A challenge shrouded in mundanity.

Dean lifted one shoulder less than an inch and dropped it again in the semblance of a shrug, refusing to rise to the bait.

"What do you want to eat?" Sam pressed.

"Don't care," he muttered, widening the hole he'd made slightly, cleaning up the edges.

"Dean, come on."

Dean forced himself to look up. "What?"

"You've been back for weeks now," Sam said, and Dean sighed just as loudly as Sam had earlier, looking back at his belt. "Don't do that, you know we have to talk about this."

"No, we really don't," Dean snapped, standing up to thread his belt through the loops. He wasn't staying for this conversation, not again.

"You're skinny, man. I know…I know Purgatory was rough, but –"

"You don't know a damn thing about Purgatory," Dean cut him off. "I spent a goddamn year running and fighting for my life while you were here shacking up with some chick, not even bothering to look for me." He picked up his gun, his jacket, and his keys, jerked the motel door open. "Don't act like you care about what happens to me," he spat and slammed the door, the echo of his words behind him less angry than he meant for them to be, sadder than he cared to admit.

Dean drove half a mile before he pulled over, smacking his hand against the steering wheel, then rested his head against it. "Sorry, baby," he murmured.

When he let himself, he was furious at Sam. He was hurt and betrayed and angry, and he wanted to be those things. He wanted to yell and scream and throw some punches, because every second Sam was gone, Dean was looking for him. Every night Sam was gone, Dean drank until he passed out because he couldn't stop remembering Sam, couldn't stop thinking he was about to walk around the corner and gripe about Dean's socks on the floor, or tell him about a hunt or hand him a beer. He wanted to be angry, but every time he thought of how awful it was without Sam, he knew he couldn't afford it. And when he thought about the first moment he saw Sam after Purgatory, the feel of Sam alive and breathing in his arms, he could almost convince himself he wasn't angry at all.

He let the anger flare up, once in a while, because of all the things he felt, anger was the cheapest. Anger was a tiny down payment on the betrayal and mistrust and uncertainty between them. So he pulled it out like a shield every time Sam nagged him about the weight he'd lost, because if he wasn't angry at Sam for being annoying, he'd be embarrassingly grateful that he even noticed. Dean didn't have that kind of chick flick moment left in him.

An hour after he stormed out, Dean returned with dinner as a peace offering. Sam had moved to the table, squinting at his laptop screen, but as soon as Dean approached, he slammed it shut. Dean raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. He wasn't in a position to be demanding his brother's secrets. He handed a Styrofoam box to Sam.

"I found the most disgustingly healthy thing on the menu for you," he said offhand, as though he hadn't spent a full five minutes looking for something just this absurd. Sam opened the box to reveal what was supposedly some kind of sandwich, except it was vegetarian and gluten-free, whatever the fuck that meant.

"Thanks," Sam said, actually looking kind of happy about the green abomination sitting in front of him. Dean settled onto Sam's bed, opening his own box to reveal a burger and fries. He tipped the box conspicuously toward his brother to show Sam that, yes, he has food. Sam looked like he wanted to argue about Dean eating on his bed, but finally looked back at his own food and kept his mouth shut.

It was a pretty good burger, Dean thought after the first bite. Nothing in Purgatory was soft the way bread was, everything stony solid and razor-sharp edges. Nothing like these crisp vegetables, because stuff didn't grow right there. But there was meat, he reflected, looking at the burger. Torn and mauled and bloody, strewn across the ground in poisonous rivulets. He looked away and forced a second bite, choked on a third, took a deep breath as his stomach roiled, the kind of faint shriek that preceded meat in Purgatory. He set the burger down, poked through the french fries looking for the crispiest ones because the mush of potato reminded him of soil in his mouth, ate exactly five of them, and set the box aside, laying back even though this wasn't his bed. It wasn't much, but he could probably hold this much down, if he really concentrated on not thinking.

"Dean." Dean sat back up slowly, shooting an annoyed glance at Sam and his goddamn puppy eyes. He choked down a few more bites of burger, a couple more fries. Because maybe it would make Sam happy, even if it meant he'd probably have to puke later. And then he lay back and closed his eyes, folding his hands on his stomach instead of clutching it the way he needed.

"Shut up, Sam." He didn't even open his eyes because he knew exactly what Sam was doing. They'd had this conversation so many times, he didn't even have to look to know Sam was wearing his concerned face.

"You can't be full already." Another challenge clothed in disbelief.

"Well, I am," Dean snapped, opening his eyes to glare at the ceiling, dropping one of his hands to the bed, clenching his fists in the sheets. He pressed the other a little harder against his stomach. Not just full, actually. Nauseated. Exactly as he was every time he tried to eat anything substantial.

"Dean, you've lost so much weight," Sam tried again. "I can count your ribs through your shirt." Dean looked down at his chest and raised his eyebrows because couldn't really argue with that. "What are you trying to do?"

"Not trying anything, Sammy. Just not hungry," Dean said tiredly.

Sam gave one of those ridiculous sighs again, and Dean closed his eyes once more. "Can you at least not sleep on my bed?" Sam snapped, like he was indignant instead of worried. Dean didn't know why they bothered with these stupid masks anymore.

Dean rolled off the bed, and his stomach lurched. He scrambled toward the bathroom, barely making it in time to lose his so-called dinner in just a couple quick heaves. He stayed for a long moment, breathing heavily, trying to let his stomach settle, before straightening up, wiping his mouth and flushing. He turned to brush his teeth, only to find Sam standing in the doorway because he hadn't even had time to close the damn door. "Ever heard of privacy?" he rasped, irritated.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam said softly. "Jesus."

He was doing the goddamn puppy dog eyes again and Dean could feel himself crumbling. It made him want to shove Sam back a step, startle him enough to knock that look off his face, just long enough for Dean to leave. But the stupid eyes were working on him and instead he leaned heavily on the sink, hanging his head.

"Ever since I got back…" Dean trailed off, waved his hand in a motion he hoped would encompass puking his guts out every time he ate, when he could eat at all.

"You've been doing this since you got back?" Sam asked, a weird accusing lilt to the guilt in his voice.

"Not doing anything, Sam," Dean said tiredly, before running a toothbrush quickly around his mouth to kill the taste.

"No, I meant….Christ, Dean."

Dean leaned down to spit out his toothpaste, studiously avoiding Sam's stupid wounded expression.

"I thought you were starving yourself because…" Sam mumbled then paused. "I don't know why," he added in a rush like Dean wouldn't notice it was a lie.

"Not a fucking girl," Dean griped. He did shove Sam now, more to get out of the bathroom than anything. The puking had left him feeling weak and shaky, and he just wanted to go to bed and ignore this whole damn conversation.

"I wasn't trying to…" Sam trailed off as Dean kicked off his boots and laid on his bed, fully dressed. He heard Sam say something else, but he didn't listen, closing his eyes and curling around his aching stomach. A moment later, the light clicked off and Sam's hand brushed lightly on his shoulder. Dean fell asleep to the mechanically clicking of the laptop keys and he dreamed of Purgatory, of a million eyes blinking at him as his body shrank under their scrutiny no matter how hard he fought.

-SPN-

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam asked as soon as Dean opened his eyes. Sam sat on the opposite bed, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees so that his face was approximately a foot from Dean's.

"The fuck?" Dean groaned, rolling to face away from Sam. "Do I have to teach you about personal space too? Jesus Christ."

"I was thinking this whole time you were doing this on purpose, or something," Sam pressed. "You should have told me." Like it was something you just came out and said. Like you could admit you couldn't do the most basic goddamn thing in the world, to your brother who thought you were a needy bitch and had been glad to be rid of you.

"You could have asked," Dean muttered instead, pushing himself up until he was sitting against the headboard.

Sam paused, frowning at him. "I'm sorry. You're right," he said finally and before Dean could think the world was ending because there was one fucking thing in this world that wasn't his fault: "But you should have told me."

"I can take care of myself, Sam. Been doing it for years."

"I can help you," Sam insisted. "I read about this, last night."

"What, you found online support for Purgatorian stomach bugs?" Dean asked, hauling himself out of bed and heading for the shower, turning it on so Sam would stop talking.

"It's not a stomach bug," Sam said over the sound of creaking pipes. "It's called Refeeding Syndrome."

"I don't have some fucking syndrome," Dean retorted.

"Dean, would you just listen to me for one minute, please?" Sam demanded, and Dean stopped. He looked at Sam for a long moment, then waved at him to continue.

"It happens when you've been fasting or malnourished. It's like your body can't just accept normal food again," Sam said in a rush. "And it can be really dangerous. But it's easy to treat."

"Okay, I'm listening," Dean said, folding his arms.

"We just have to start slow. Give you stuff that's easy to digest, stuff with a lot of minerals in it because yours are probably depleted. Work back up to cheeseburgers and stuff."

Which sounded a lot more pleasant than what it actually was. Dean had pictured all the times he was sick as a kid, being fed his dad's stew and milkshakes. But, according to Sam, milkshakes were far too rich and Dad's stew had too much protein. What he actually got was "Scrambled eggs. No bacon, no sausage. Just scrambled eggs." Dean jabbed his fork at the offending yellow substance.

"Easy to digest," Sam said earnestly and for just a second, Dean remembered that exact look on his brother's face when he was twelve, bringing him the right tools to tinker with cars in Bobby's yard, and Dean crumbled.

"Fine," he mumbled through a mouthful of eggs, washed down with a glass of milk – "Has a lot of phosphate, it'll help get your metabolism on track," Sam had explained, trying, and failing, to hand Dean some sort of ridiculous diagram to prove his point.

It wasn't actually that bad, and when he didn't have to pull over to throw up, he considered it a win.

Sam attacked Dean's alleged syndrome with the same intense approach he used for all other aspects of his life. He read every single thing he could find on the internet, scoured the library, wrote out meal plans and then annoyed the hell out of Dean until he complied with the gospel of Sam. For five solid days, Sam was pushing some kind of snack at Dean every two hours on the hour, even to the point of pausing halfway through digging a grave to tell Dean it was time for a banana, which was conveniently left resting on top of the weapons duffle. Dean threw it at Sam's head instead.

-SPN-

Despite Sam's ridiculously over the top attempts at taking care of him, Dean had to admit defeat at a gas station in some Podunk town in Montana. Because he felt like complete crap and after driving five hours through Jack Frost's temper tantrum because Sam insisted there was a case up in this godforsaken part of the country that couldn't wait until it thawed a bit, Dean was in no shape to continue driving. Already he'd nearly spun them off the road when a wayward sneeze caused him to jerk the wheel over a patch of ice. He might be falling apart and this was sure to make Sam call him on it, but damned if his baby was going to suffer with him.

While Sam was still inside primping in the mirror or whatever girly shit he did that took so goddamn long, Dean finished filling the tank and planted himself firmly in the passenger seat, trying to convince himself of some residual Sam body heat left in the seats despite the icy weather. When Sam finally came out of the gas station, he looked at Dean curled in the passenger seat, then pointedly around at the snow piling up and the ice slicking the roads, and back at Dean, because they both knew Dean didn't trust anybody with his baby in this kind of weather. Dean gave him the most menacing glare he could muster under the circumstances, and Sam had the good sense to get in the driver's seat and shut the hell up.

After an uncomfortably silent twenty minutes, punctuated only by the occasional painful sneeze from Dean because Sam would apparently rather listen to him suffer than turn on the damn radio, Sam finally said "Snack time."

"Not hungry," Dean muttered, refusing to take the apple Sam was trying to hand him, instead turning his head to rest on the passenger door.

"Dean, c'mon. You've been doing so well." He had too, although it wasn't as though eating was a particularly complex skill. He'd even been feeling a little better overall, less weak and dizzy than he'd been since getting back topside. Until, that was, he started feeling like complete shit again.

"Not now, Sam," Dean said as firmly as he could, but his voice cracked at the end as he broke off into a harsh cough. He turned away from the window again, looking for some water or coffee or something liquid to quash the fire erupting in his throat. Sam handed him a bottle of water and Dean took a few gulps before capping the bottle and leaning back against the seat, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath.

A second later, though, he felt Sam's palm on his forehead. "Shit, Dean, you've got a fever." The hand was gone before Dean could even muster the strength to push it away, and he sort of missed the coolness of Sam's skin against his own.

"Fuck," Sam muttered, and Dean felt the car slow. He blinked his eyes open and noted the motel sign up ahead.

"Don't stop," he said and his voice broke. He coughed shallowly, trying to clear his throat. "We gotta make Trego by nightfall."

"Trego will still be there when you don't have a fever."

"Not what you said this morning," Dean muttered.

"You're sick," Sam insisted, parking the car in front of the office. "The poltergeist can fucking wait."

"It's just a fever," Dean grumbled.

"Dean, you're borderline underweight, you're malnourished. Your immune system is compromised." Sam said it urgently, like Dean was fucking dying or something, which he wasn't. He just had a stupid fever. "If it's just a fever, it'll be gone by tomorrow and we can get to Trego then. Okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not _underweight_." But Sam was already out of the car, the sound of the door slamming drowning out Dean's protests.

-SPN-

"You have to say sorry," Dean murmured, tugging his blankets down enough to glare at Sam with one eye.

"I'm not apologizing to you, Dean," Sam said as he rooted through their first aid kit, not even bothering to notice all the effort Dean had put into this cyclops glare.

"Not to me," Dean said, then paused as Sam rattled a pill bottle loudly. "To Baby."

"Fuck, Dean, there is nothing in this stupid box," Sam griped, like he it was Dean's fault, when they both knew who usually restocked the damn thing. And for that matter, Dean thought uncharitably, Sam had had plenty of time to buy cold pills while Dean was in Purgatory.

"I'm serious, Sam." Dean shivered again, coughed painfully, and pulled the thin blanket back over his head. It didn't help. "You slammed the door."

Another ridiculous sigh from Sam. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"No, you have to go tell Baby," Dean insisted, pulling the blankets back down to look at Dean imploringly, teeth chattering uncomfortably.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Sammy? While you're out there apologizing, go buy soup." He sneezed in what he hoped was a convincing way.

"Oh, now you're hungry?" Sam snarked, and actually threw his hands up like he was in some overacted junior high play.

"No," Dean said. "I'm fucking freezing."

Sam sighed again, but this time it wasn't the huge gust of exasperation. It was the softer huff of resignation. Sam snatched the sheets and blankets off his own bed and settled them over Dean, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed to tuck them in all around, then running his hand lightly along Dean's back and up to cup the back of his neck. "Fever's gone up," he said softly. "Okay. I'm gonna go out real quick. I saw a store not that far from here. I'm gonna get us some stuff to make it through the next couple of days."

"No," Dean said then broke into another coughing fit. "Trego tomorrow."

"Uh-huh." Sam smoothed his hand over Dean's head like he was pushing his hair back from his forehead even though Dean didn't have that ridiculous mop Sam did, but Sam's hand was gone before he could get his arm out of the blankets to swat him away. He scowled instead, but Sam was standing up to grab the keys and missed it.

He turned the TV on, flipped through the channels until he found Dr. Sexy MD, and tossed the remote onto the bed by Dean's face. "Don't die while I'm gone. I don't feel like dealing with any more dead bodies this week," Sam said, which really meant that he was worried.

"Be careful with my car," Dean said when he really meant 'be careful with my brother.'

-SPN-

True to his word, Sam was back after less than one episode of Dr. Sexy, but it was a close thing. Dean had actually started considering the best way to change the channel without emerging from his blankets might be to use his tongue, figuring that the germs he might pick up couldn't be that much worse than whatever he already had, and quite frankly, his entire body hurt too much to consider much else.

Thankfully, just as the credits appeared, Sam stumbled in the door coated in white like a sugar doughnut, weighed down with several plastic grocery sacks. Dean blinked gummy eyes up at him and sneezed. Sam slammed the door and dropped the bags on the table.

"Trego, Sam," he coughed. "The fuck is all that?"

"Fuck Trego," Sam muttered darkly. "Damn poltergeist is probably under six feet of snow by now. Radio said this storm isn't letting up any time soon. We're fucking stuck."

"You're the one –" The cough came on so suddenly Dean almost choked, spluttering and coughing all the more as his throat was torn raw and his mouth began to taste faintly of blood. His brother was at his side in an instant, pulling him up until he was sitting cradled against Sam's chest, coughing uncontrollably, barely able to wheeze a breath between bouts of hacking.

"Jesus fuck, Dean!" Sam said, rubbing his back and that fucking hurt, his goddamn skin hurt and Sam was raising bruises alone the knobs of his spine but he couldn't even catch his breath to tell him. His vision started to darken at the edges and he lost track of what Sam was cursing, the only sound the crackle of his lungs collapsing as he desperately tried to breathe.

Slowly, the coughing subsided and Dean sagged, gasping shallowly, against Sam who was holding him tightly, rocking him back and forth gently, one hand running carefully through Dean's hair. He took a couple more shallow breaths and weakly pushed Sam away so he could flop back down onto the mattress, wincing as the contact made his muscles ache.

Sam hesitated for a moment where he sat on the edge of the bed, half reaching for Dean like he was going to hold him again but seeming to realize that wasn't going to do anything helpful at all and instead muttering, "Drugs."

"Cocaine with a side of heroin," Dean ordered weakly. "Nothing I have to smoke."

Sam rolled his eyes but the lines crinkling his brow weren't quite as deep when he returned holding what for Dean would have been a handful of pills.

"The fuck, Sammy?" Dean rasped. "I was kidding, I'm not trying to overdose tonight. I've puked enough lately."

"Tylenol, NyQuil, and a fuckton of vitamin C," Sam said, forcing the pills into Dean's hand. "Just take them, okay?" And then the puppy dog eyes. Sam turned away and started doing something in the kitchen while Dean took the pills one at a time, wincing as each dragged along his sore throat.

Sam returned, shuffling between the beds to stand in front of Dean with a hot water bottle, an icepack wrapped efficiently in a towel, and a thermos. He tugged Dean's blankets away and Dean made a mortifyingly pathetic noise of protest, then an equally humiliating hum of content as Sam settled the warm rubber bag against his belly. Sam tucked the blankets back around him, then walked around the bed and sat next to Dean, back against the headboard, swinging his legs up and kicking off his boots. Dean rolled over onto his back, dragging the water bottle with him and stared up at Sam.

Sam handed him the thermos. "Soup. You've got to eat something. Can't lose the progress we already made, okay?" Dean wriggled one hand out from under the blankets and took the thermos, staring at it from his reclined position like he could take off the lid and move the soup to his mouth with just his brain. But that had always been Sam's area of expertise, not Dean's.

Wordlessly, Sam slid an arm behind Dean's shoulders, wincing as shoulder blades dug into his arm, and pulled Dean up enough to prop several pillows behind his back. Dean settled back into them, immediately breathing easier. Sam unscrewed the top of the thermos for him because Dean was still unwilling to move any more body parts out of his blanket cocoon. Dean frowned as he felt Sam's arm worm its way beneath the top pillow and then Sam's arm was sort of wrapped around him, his hand holding the cloth-covered icepack to Dean's forehead. Which meant, despite the fact that he couldn't really feel Sam's arm through the pillow or feel Sam's anything through the layers of blankets, he was basically nestled in his brother's arms and that was just a little weird.

"Sam…" he protested quietly, glancing up to find his brother staring determinedly at the procedural cop drama that had taken the place of Dr. Sexy.

"Shut the fuck up and drink your soup, Dean." He said it nicely though, no edge or undercurrent at all. And maybe this was weird and touchy-feely and entirely too chick flick, but damn if it didn't help. He wasn't shivering anymore and the aching in his joints was already abating. He hadn't quite noticed the flush of fever in his face but the ice was making it feel a hell of a lot better. The soup even actually tasted good.

And maybe he could feel the ridges of his ribs pressing up where his arms were crossed over his chest, maybe he was sicker than he'd been in years. But he wasn't in Purgatory, alone with no one looking for him. And maybe Sam hadn't looked for him. But Sam did go out into a blizzard for him. And maybe he was still hurt and betrayed and angry. But right here, with the feel of Sam alive and breathing at his side Dean wasn't angry at all.

He gripped the remote through the blankets and tossed it into Sam's lap. "Change the channel, bitch. Fucking hate CSI."


	2. Chapter 2

**An Attribute of the Strong**

**Chapter Two**

The NyQuil didn't even get a chance to work. Not half an hour after Sam settled on an X-Files rerun, Dean was shoving Sam's arm off of him and stumbling for the bathroom. At least this time he had the presence of mind to slam the door behind him.

Not that it stopped Sam. Before Dean was even halfway through the dry heaving, Sam was sitting on the edge of the tub, hand resting on Dean's spine, exactly where it was already bruised from Sam's earlier ministrations.

Dean spat one last time and shrugged Sam's hand off. "I already let you snuggle with me," he said roughly. "That's enough goddamn bonding. I'm not in the mood to put out tonight."

"I should call an ambulance," Sam said drily. "If you're not in the mood for sex, you're either dying or the world is ending. No wait, I remember when the world _was_ ending and I spent plenty of nights in the car."

Dean tried to summon a cocky grin but it was more of a grimace before it was interrupting with a fit of coughing that left him gagging, hunching over the toilet again. And Sam's hand was bumping along the pebbled path of Dean's spine, warm and soothing. Dean didn't even have the energy to shake him off again, just slumped over as soon as he was done, his head coming to rest against Sam's knee like he was some sort of damn Labrador. And then Sam's hand moved to his hair.

"Don't…" Dean tried to order but then his voice just stopped, something Sam's hand neglected to do.

"Don't what?" Sam asked, his fingers still stroking through Dean's hair.

"Stop _petting_ me," Dean murmured with exactly zero percent of the ire he had planned.

"I'm not," Sam said, even though he was. Dean considered getting up and kicking his brother's ass on principle alone. He even cracked one eye open as the first step in the plan to deliver the beat down, but the stupid white walls and fuzzy fluorescent lights hurt his head and he found himself turning his face against Sam's knee and giving up. The petting wasn't actually so bad.

Dean shivered. Without the blankets and sheets and hot water bottle, he was left with the t-shirt he'd been wearing all day, possibly since yesterday, and boxers. And the vinyl of the floor, while surprisingly not sticky, was still unpleasantly cold. Of course, Sam noticed.

"C'mon, man," Sam said softly, in that deeply caring voice he used on old ladies. "Back to bed." And the petting ceased.

Dean opened his eyes while simultaneously trying to stand up, and received a searing pain through his retinas as a reward. He ended up kind of dragging himself to his feet by clawing his way up Sam's shirt, like his brother was some kind of ladder. Which, Dean reflected, was close enough as to be true. He didn't even notice he was falling until Sam's arms came in swift, painful contact with his ribs, and he ended up doubled over, hacking uncontrollably with Sam's arms wrapped around his chest to hold him up.

Sam was as gentle as he could be about lowering them both to the floor, but with Dean's hunched posture and general uselessness to the cause of movement, it was more of a controlled collapse than a sitting down. Sam ended up on his knees, Dean sprawled across his lap with his face pushed into Sam's abs.

"Okay, that's obviously not going to work." Dean squirmed to roll himself so his face wasn't pressed into Sam's sweaty flannel, and Sam took charge, arranging Dean so he was sitting on the tile, leaning against Sam's chest. Dean wondered how he kept getting into these situations, cuddling with his overgrown brother against his will. He flailed a little, trying to get away, and Sam wrapped an arm around his chest, and then, of all things, started rubbing gentle circles on his chest.

He felt Sam reach back and heard the shower turn on. "I already…told you," he wheezed. "I'm not…up for….fucking tonight…Not even…in the shower."

"Could you stop being a jerk for two seconds so you can start breathing again?" Sam snapped. So Dean stopped talking and let Sam cuddle him, because maybe this was stupid and weird and more than a little girly, but he was freezing and he really couldn't breathe and those stupid circles actually seemed to be helping a tiny bit, while the little room slowly filled with steam.

"Here," Sam said, tossing a box of tissues into Dean's lap, startling him out of the half-sleep he'd settled into. "Blow."

"Dude, I know," Dean said, indignant. "I used to do this for you."

He could almost feel Sam's eyes roll. "Just shut up and do it."

Ten minutes later, Dean was breathing easier, and the unpleasant crackle in the top of his lungs had settled somewhat. He was warm and pretty comfortable and damn sleepy, which of course meant that Sam had decided it was time to move. He heard Sam say something to that effect but was planning on completely ignoring it. Sam, however, clearly didn't need Dean's help or care for his input and Dean felt Sam's hands under his arms hauling him unceremoniously to his feet. Dean wavered a little but remained upright, blinking through the steam at Sam. And when the steam suddenly dissipated, Dean realized that the shower was already off and the steam he had seen was his own blurry vision. Maybe it had been more than ten minutes.

Sam sort of shuffled Dean out of the bathroom, Dean stumbling clumsily and wondering why his stupid body didn't work right anymore. He figured he could at least get it to fall onto the bed and made to move in that direction, but Sam stopped him with disturbing ease.

"You need to change," he said all sincerely serious, and Dean blinked at him.

"People don't change," Dean said frowning. "Especially not when they're dying of the fucking flu."

"Not you, as a person," Sam said, exasperated. "You need to change your damn clothes." He knelt by Dean's duffle and pulled out a pair of boxers that was probably clean and threw them at Dean, who embarrassingly reacted to catch them only after they were draped over his shoulder. Then Sam moved to his own duffle and started digging around, and Dean decided to take advantage of Sam's inattention and change his boxers before he Sam tried to help. Damned if he was going to let Sam that close to his junk if he didn't have to.

By the time Sam turned around with a bundle of clothes in hand, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed in the clean boxers and the old t-shirt, hoping against hope Sam would let him keep the sweaty disgusting shirt he was already wearing. But no dice.

"Shirt off," Sam ordered.

"Sam, you know I don't swing that way," Dean said halfheartedly, but Sam was already reaching out to try to tug the shirt over Dean's head. "Okay, okay."

He looked straight at Sam's eyes while Sam looked straight at his bones. Watched them widen, watched that wrinkle form between them, watched them rove over his exposed body. Sam had nagged enough that Dean was absolutely sure he knew Dean was too thin. In all his usual layers, Dean wasn't that much smaller than he used to be, but in a t-shirt the weight loss was more noticeable, and shirtless there was no disguising it at all. Dean's stomach had gone a little concave, his spectacularly defined abs matching his defined ribs. His hipbones were sharp over the waistband of his boxers, which felt a little loose. He folded his arms over his chest, cleared his throat uncomfortably.

Dean didn't know how much he had weighed when he landed in Purgatory, but he'd guess he'd probably lost a good thirty pounds since then. He was a big guy, when he wasn't standing by Sam, and all in all, thirty pounds wasn't that much. Barely noticeably in clothes. Certainly nothing to freak out over. He allowed himself a violent shiver, because the room was damn cold, and Sam blinked, then shook himself, not just his head but his whole body, like a dog.

"Right, uh, here," Sam said, handing Dean a pair of Sam's sweatpants, which Dean put on compliantly because Sam still had that worried wrinkle and he wanted to cover up the cause of it. When he was done, Sam reached around him to wrap Dean in his charcoal hoodie, and Dean tried to scowl at him because he could dress himself, but the hoodie was so fucking soft he couldn't even find it in himself to be upset. He wasn't comforted by the Sam-smell of the clothes because he's not a dog, but even he could not deny that Sam had the better clothes to wear when sick. Dean has manly, practical clothes like jackets with knife pockets and well-worn jeans he can run in. Sam has pretentious fluffy things like fleece-lined sweatpants that bunch at Dean's ankles and hoodies that envelope him.

Sam guided Dean back to the bed, tucked him back into the blankets. He sprawled out too, propped against the headboard, as he had before, but this time Dean faced away from him, Sam's hip against his spine. Sam held a new icepack to his forehead, after dosing Dean with more NyQuil, Tylenol and another fuckton of vitamin C. The hot water bottle had been refilled, pressed against his belly once more, and Dean curled around it, shivering miserably. The murmur of the TV was almost inaudible, and Dean's only real connection left to the world was Sam, his fingers gently brushing the back of Dean's neck to check his fever, his breathing, the slight shift of the bed when he moved. And with that mooring to pull back to, Dean let himself drift.

Life didn't stop in Purgatory, he'd learned. It wasn't like Hell, where the physical only existed as a convenience for the mental. It was a physical place, with rivers and trees, an overexposed day and a night like gravity, just drawing you closer. It was hunger and thirst and running, sore muscles and blood and killing. And Dean had gotten sick, committed the cardinal sin of Purgatory, because there, if you stopped killing, you would be killed.

For what amounted to five days, he was too weak to even get up, lying curled as tightly as he could, head tucked against his knees, sweating and trembling and falling apart. Benny was there, caring for him as much as he could, and Dean hated himself for needing it. For needing the water Benny brought, what little food he could find. For allowing Benny to carry him to a safer place because he didn't have any more psychic powers in Purgatory than he did on Earth. For letting Benny hold him the way Sam used to when he was sick, except Sam did it for comfort, and Benny did it to disguise the smell of human, because in Purgatory, human was synonymous with food.

Dean remembered, in those hazy days and nights of fever and weakness, of the scratchy wool of Benny's coat against his face, Dean remembered dreaming of Sam's hoodie every time he slept. Purgatory had nothing soft but flesh, nothing warm except blood and bodies and blistering sun. He remembered the feel of Sam's hoodie against his skin years ago, of Sam's hands on his shoulders, guiding him, and it made him hate himself. Because when he was sick in Purgatory, the most comforting thing he could remember was dying on Earth.

He felt Sam's fingers brush gently through his hair and he shifted a tiny bit, startled out of his remembering. Sam froze, fingers still resting lightly on the crown of Dean's head. Dean forcibly relaxed his body and he felt Sam's hand resume its motion.

Benny hadn't done this. He'd kept Dean alive, had loved him like a brother, fought at his side, but this was different. He didn't know why. Benny had never let him down, cared for him when he didn't have to. Sam chose a demon over him, chose school over him, chose girls over him. Sam would die for him, but didn't want to live with him. But it was Sam who would pet his hair, wrap him in a hoodie, find a bad zombie movie on TV in the dark of night for him.

Dean hadn't ever asked how long Benny had been a vampire, but he could tell it had been a while. Maybe he couldn't remember what it was to be so fragile because it had been so long since Benny had been delicate the way humans are. He was too far removed from being taken care of to remember what he would want.

But Sam and Dean were far removed from those days as well. With decades of hell under each of their belts, a stint in Purgatory for Dean, several deaths each, the days of being cared for were long past. But Sam had never forgotten that Dean liked tomato rice soup because their mom made it, that their father used to put his huge hand on the crown of their heads when he was proud, that Dean used to pet Sam's hair when he was sick. And he guessed that was the difference. Benny would always be there for him, but Sam already had been.

Dean sneezed himself back to awareness and found that the icepack was gone, the hot water bottle was no longer hot, and Sam was sitting halfway up, having been startled awake by the sneeze. Dean rolled over to look up at Sam.

"Sammy?" he asked and was immediately mortified at how pathetic and congested he sounded. He looked back at the TV and found an infomercial for some workout video, the zombie movie long over. "How long have I been out?"

"Few hours," Sam yawned, checking his watch. "NyQuil hit you pretty hard, I think."

"Mmm," Dean agreed. A coughing fit overtook him and he rolled away from Sam, hacking uncontrollably. Sam patted him on the back very lightly.

When Dean was done, he turned back to look at Sam, but found Sam had gotten up, was moving over to the kitchen. "Sam?"

"Time for you to eat," Sam said, starting to heat something up.

"Not hungry," Dean said weakly. Sam just shook his head, didn't even pause.

A couple minutes later, Dean was propped up, holding his thermos of soup again, and Sam was sitting on the bed next to him, watching him expectantly. Dean took a couple of sips under Sam's watchful eye. Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean drank a little more, but he could already tell this was a bad idea. He finished half the thermos before he felt sick enough to even resist Sam's puppy dog eyes, and he lay back, clutching his stomach.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, and he really did look it. He looked it so much, in fact, that Dean closed his eyes because it hurt to look at him.

"It's okay, Sammy." He clenched his teeth, concentrating on keeping the soup down.

"I know it's…" Sam trailed off. "But you have to…"

"I know," Dean murmured. And he did know. He was trying, really hard. But it was less than fifteen minutes before he failed, on his knees in the bathroom, losing the soup and the water and whatever strength he had left.

Sam practically had to carry him back to the bed, Dean supporting almost none of his own weight, and this too was different, because Benny had just scooped him up like it was nothing, and instead of feeling safe he felt vulnerable, knowing everything here was stronger than he was.

Sam wrapped him in the blanket once more as Dean shook violently, teeth clacking together. "I'm sorry," he said miserably, his face pressed against Sam's chest. Sam rubbed his back through all the blankets.

"Stop. I know you can't help it. You're not disappointing me. You know that, right?" Sam asked.

"Don't…" Dean coughed again, directly into Sam's shirt.

"I'm serious, Dean. I'm not upset with you," Sam insisted, not even looking upset about Dean breathing his germs all over the place.

"_Don't_," Dean said louder, "inflict chick flick moments on me when I'm too weak to get up and leave."

Sam laughed abruptly, loud and sudden and Dean felt it echo through his chest, smiled a little into Sam's shirt so he couldn't see.

They fell silent for a while, save for the muted drone of the TV. Dean's trembling slowly abated, leaving him exhausted and he was almost dozing off when he heard Sam speak quietly.

"Why didn't you tell me how bad it was?" His hand traced the line of each of Dean's ribs along his back, circled each notch of his spine.

"Didn't think you cared," Dean said hoarsely. Dean turned over so his back was to Sam again, burrowed further under his blankets so Sam would stop feeling his bones.

"How could you think that?" Sam asked.

Because Sam didn't look for him. Sam left him. Sam didn't want this life. Didn't want Dean.

But Sam took care of him. Stayed. Chose this life. Dropped everything for Dean.

He couldn't reconcile those things, the Sam that didn't look for him with the Sam who took care of him. Didn't know what he did to flip that switch. Couldn't see the moment when the Sam he helped with homework every night became the Sam who left him to do homework somewhere else, the moment when the Sam who killed demons at his side every day became the Sam who drank blood and turned his eyes black. Never knew when that switch would flip again.

Dean didn't say anything.

Sam sighed. "I didn't have to look for you."

Well, obviously, because he _hadn't._

"You vanished. And then I walked out of that building and the first thing I saw was your car, and I remembered Dad dying and Cas going off the deep end and you fixing that car. I remembered you teaching me how to fix it because you were going to Hell." Sam paused and Dean felt him take a deep breath. "I spent weeks fixing the car, and the whole time all I could think of was how you would do it, without all the stuff I had to look up online, without all the cuts and bruises I got trying to figure it out. And then I was driving and I thought of how you never needed a map because you always just somehow knew, and every diner I passed I wondered if you'd like their burgers or if they had pie. Every time Led Zeppelin came on the radio, I remembered how you would always sing along off-key." He took another shuddering breath. "The first book I opened, trying to figure out what happened to you, I couldn't get past the first sentence because you weren't there chewing with your mouth open on my bed or tapping your pen or distracting me."

"Sammy…" Dean started, but Sam cut him off.

"I didn't have to look for you," he said deliberately. "Because you were every goddamn place I went."

From the moment he fell into Purgatory, Dean was fighting. Not just killing and running, but fighting. Not just against the predators of the realm, but toward something. From the second Dean woke up in Purgatory, he was fighting to go back to Sam.

When Sam was about four, Dean told him that if he ever got lost, to just stay right where he was. _Wait for me,_ he said. _I'll find you._

When Sam left for college, Dean came and got him. When Sam died, Dean brought him back. When Sam chose Ruby, Dean followed him. When Sam left for Stull Cemetery, Dean showed up to save him.

Sam was always the one who left, but Dean was always the one who came back.

Dean cleared his throat, looking for words, still shivering uncomfortably in Sam's embrace. It was far too late for the joke, but he made it anyway: "I'm going to remind you of this next time you complain I'm distracting you from the research."

He felt Sam's chuckle rumble through his chest and abruptly it was okay. "Seriously, Sammy. I can be more annoying any time you need."

"I don't doubt that," Sam said, a smile in his voice.

They were quiet a long while after that, the comfortable kind of silence that settled after long hours in the car, between two people who had a lifetime to say what needed to be said, could afford to wait until the time was right.

"You know I'll always find you, right, Sam?" Dean said softly.

"Mhmm," Sam hummed, half-asleep. They were silent for a long moment.

"You know there's another bed, don't you?" Dean asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Any reason you're still on mine then?"

"No blankets," Sam said, and Dean remembered Sam had wrapped him in both sets.

"You can have some," Dean said, shifting to make them more accessible. He felt a tug on the blankets, a brief moment of cold air and then Sam's warm body against his back.

"I meant you can take them to your bed," Dean groused.

"Shut up, Dean." His arms wrapped around Dean's waist, pulled him close, and the last of Dean's chills vanished.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"You're still not getting any." And Dean let himself drift to sleep, dreaming not of Hell or Purgatory, but of the open road, the Impala rumbling under his hands, Sam laughing in his ear.


End file.
